


watching you watch over me (I've got the greatest view from here)

by therestisdetail



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 03:26:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3312173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therestisdetail/pseuds/therestisdetail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a nice chair, he figures, something AR might have, only he doesn’t dwell on that too long. It’s Meyer’s, Meyer is sitting in it, leaning back and focused on his notebook and Charlie is drunk enough that he’s already on his knees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	watching you watch over me (I've got the greatest view from here)

 

It’s a nice chair, he figures, something AR might have, only he doesn’t dwell on that too long. It’s Meyer’s, Meyer is sitting in it, leaning back and focused on his notebook and Charlie is drunk enough that he’s already on his knees.

Meyer puts the notebook down; Charlie has wine on his tongue from a long night and tries not to talk because he knows he’s still thinking in Italian. No waistcoat, no jacket, cast off somewhere after the front door because they were too tight on his skin, too thick when he’s already burning low from the inside with a too-fast pulse. There’s nothing much except heat in his veins, and he _wants_. So he nudges Meyer’s legs further apart because sweat-stuck curls are being tucked away from in front of his eyes, which is permission.

He is clumsy with the belt buckle and his mouth on Meyer’s hipbone is an apology, the slight drag of teeth along skin before working his way down. Meyer shifts ever so slightly, suppresses it, and Charlie’s not sure what that means. It isn’t very new, this thing, but it’s new enough. 

It’s different, too. There’s no hand heavy on the back of his neck, pushing, no sharp thrust that chokes him, lungs burning and the desperation for air. Just Meyer with his fingers in Charlie’s hair, blunt nails pressing down as he runs his hands through, but he doesn’t grip, doesn’t pull tight. Charlie maybe wants him to, a little bit. Maybe hates himself for that, a little bit. He concentrates, instead, on drawing back with a slow flick of the tongue before his cheeks hollow and he presses forward as far as he can take, and Meyer swallows down soft sounds, over and over, where Charlie wishes he would be loud.

Charlie could do this for hours, trying to get Meyer to be loud.

He only speeds up when he can feel Meyer start to shudder, feel the tightness in the muscles under his hands. Faster, not quite getting the right rhythm though he tries to, but then Meyer does grip down and tug at his hair, ever polite. He doesn’t need to be. Charlie doesn’t care about a goddamn thing except that Meyer is making this little hitched gasping sound, doesn’t care if he can’t breathe for a second trying to swallow, trying to keep his mouth tight on Meyer right through it and drag that sound out as long as he can.

It’s a good sound. Meyer’s eyes are closed and he’s breathing heavy, after, and that’s good too. 

Then a moment; it’s only a moment, not important, but things are a little smaller and colder as he is briefly far too aware of the ache starting in his knees, the bruises he’ll have there and the burn in the corner of his mouth, his throat. And for all of that, god help him, he’s still hard. He’s hard and he’s waiting, because he’s forgotten, for a moment, that this is Meyer and he’s _allowed_ and - 

He covers for it, which comes easy. Fingers digging into Meyer’s thighs as he hauls himself up and looms over him, leans over to press his mouth against Meyer’s and braces himself against the arms of the chair. He kisses rough, then, because Meyer is so small under his hands, too dressed right now and far too unruffled. 

“What, shut you up for once? Fucking miracle.” His voice is raw and he knows how it sounds, but fine, petty is better than the alternative. He kisses rougher, bites at an unresisting lower lip. “You like that, huh?” He’s smirking, but it’s hard to choke down on the _pleasepleaseplease_ ; Meyer has clever hands, Meyer will take his time. 

Except this time Meyer’s fingers close around his jaw, rather than his belt. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I do,” and Charlie freezes up so still he thinks maybe his heart skips a beat.

“- was so _good_ , Charlie,” Meyer’s saying, real low and looking up right at him. 

And it’s not… it’s not like Meyer’s holding him there, one hand heavy on the side of Charlie’s face but not gripping it. It’s not like Charlie couldn’t look away. If he wanted. 

“You’re always _so good_ at this,” he says, and Charlie thinks, _oh._

Meyer’s not clumsy with the buckle at all. Meyer’s hand is spit-slick and large and moves with slow deliberation, it’s too much, too much to bear. “I get distracted a lot,” he’s saying, or Charlie thinks so, can just about hear it over his own heartbeat and shuddering breaths. “Watching you. And then I get you like this, look at you-“

It should be humiliating, how incredibly fast he comes. Legs giving out and collapsing into Meyer’s lap still trembling in a chair that isn’t built for two; but the thing is Meyer is still talking. Charlie has his face pressed into the crook of Meyer’s neck and he can still feel the words streaming out even if he can’t really follow it anymore, because he’s too far gone, because he thinks maybe some of them are Yiddish he hasn’t heard before.

He knows what _fucking beautiful_ means, though. He knows _mine._

He’s warm and feels boneless, weightless enough that he wouldn’t really mind sliding back onto the floor, but Meyer has a hold on him so they stay there for a while, and the chair creaks in protest.


End file.
